


Need, Want

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Anal Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Lotsa sex, M/M, Pining, Riding, Tattoos, all the sex, sex sex sex, sherlock is a sex addict, so much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: There's sex, and then there's emotions.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had never found tattooing very painful.

He could feel the discomfort, of course, and the pain was present, but it was bearable. He enjoyed telling tattooists that he inked himself occasionally, because they generally found that a hard thing to comprehend, let alone attempt.

Tattooists, for him, were more important than lovers. Relationships with professionals of that kind had to be committed. His acquaintances, by comparison, did not necessarily require commitment. They were steeped in schedules, detachment, and obligation-free sex. The people who tattooed him were leaving marks on his skin that would last forever, ideally. He wore ink from his time as an addict as a reminder, but he garnished the pieces with new ink, building on it; he couldn’t deny his past had happened. But he could transform its meaning.

Which was why the _m_ on his left hip was being covered by a collection of thick, curling letters.

His tattooist, Sullivan James, had the fingers of his left hand fanned out on his stomach, pulling the skin taut as he pressed the initial design onto Sherlock’s hip. James, known by many nicknames- including Sully, Jamie, Vans, and Skull Boy, owing to the skeletal design covering his back- was an attractive man. That, Sherlock could not deny. He was a whole head taller than Sherlock, and built beautifully; the kind of man who’d have the world at his feet, as he stared out at it through magazine covers and endless advertisements and cologne photoshoots. But, instead, he’d covered himself in designs, and worked himself to the top of this ancient industry. His face was sharp. Angular. Black eyes set surrounded by long eyelashes, a set of lips that were round enough to curiously contradict his masculinity.

Sherlock was more than tempted.

“What’re these letters?” James murmured as he peeled back the paper.

“No one knows.” Sherlock’s fingers were folded behind his head, and he mused on whether James would react positively to an advance. Sherlock was well aware that James would sexually be unoffended, but his pride might stand in the way of an arrangement with a client. Nevertheless, he’d seen James’ eyes roam his chest, wander up his form. It hadn’t been strictly necessary to remove his shirt for this tattoo, but Sherlock had anyway. “It was taken from an ancient text.”

James chuckled, producing the needle. A low buzzing hit the air. “So you could be getting anything tattooed in you right now. ‘Suck my dick’, for instance.”

“Eloquent, as always, James.”

James laughed. The sound was a deep, expressive noise. Sherlock imagined his moans would be expressive too.

“I suppose it isn’t any worse than westerners getting Chinese characters on them, not knowing what they mean.” James began to lower the needle towards Sherlock’s hip, but paused. “Do I need to tell you that this might hurt?”

“That you’re asking suggests you already know the answer.”

James shook his head. “You certainly can take it.”

 _That’s not all I can take_ , Sherlock wanted to say, but didn’t. He gazed at the ceiling as the pain whiplashed up his skin, propelled more by shock than anything else. He closed his eyes momentarily.

“You alright?”

“Of course.” Sherlock opened his eyes again. Considered the white paint above him.

He’d recently lost an acquaintance with a similar manner and build to James; tall, muscular, and crass. It left a hole in his schedule that he wanted to fill; that aside, James had been catching Sherlock’s eye for longer than he’d have admitted aloud. He didn’t, ordinarily, sleep with men. Most of his arrangements were with women; not because they were easier than men, or anything equally as sexist. Simply because Sherlock didn’t like most men. If they were his age, they were competition. If they were older than him, they were his father embodied. If they were younger than him, they had more to learn.

There were exceptions. Marcus, Gregson , his regular irregulars- and Alistair, of course. Alistair had been Sherlock’s exception in more than one way.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, relaxing into the discomfort, separating himself from it. James was a consummate professional. He worked quickly, efficiently, and didn’t enjoy chatting while he was working. It was fascinating, to focus on the centre of the pain, feel the press of James’ fingers, the press of a cloth, and try to separate the sensations.

He let the touch and pain wash over him.

Time passed. He didn’t take notice.

“…You asleep, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. It wasn’t an incorrect assumption. “No.”

James’ face appeared above his, grinning. He leaned on the bench, crossing his arms. His biceps rolled. “Reckon you were.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Are you done?”

“I’ve been at it for half an hour.”

“Is that a yes?”

James shrugged, still smiling. “Get up and find out.”

Sherlock decided it was time to make a move. It was risky; James was an artist worth keeping. If he was insulted, it wouldn’t have been worth the effort.

But it was a risk Sherlock wanted to take.

He met James’ eyes, held his gaze. Let the moment stretch on. No one else was in the studio.

“I’d rather stay here.”

James’ smile faded, replaced by curiosity. He rolled his bottom lip under his teeth. For a moment, a worrying moment, Sherlock thought perhaps he’d gambled the wrong way- then, one corner of James’ mouth tilted upwards, and he leaned down, kissed Sherlock softly.

“Thought you’d never say it.”

 

They went to the brownstone, as was customary for all of Sherlock’s arrangements. James looked around with sparking eyes, approval written all over his features. While Sherlock texted Joan to warn her that the brownstone would be occupied when she arrived home, James undressed- when Sherlock was done texting, James was naked, in all his tattooed glory. A Buddhist face smiled serenely from his muscular abdomen, surrounded by patterns so intricate that it looked like lace. Sherlock, undressed, straddled him and ran his fingertips over the designs.

“That’ll hurt for a while.” James stroked Sherlock’s hip with one thumb, over the plastic covering. “This might not be the best timing.”

“Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock pushed him backwards. “Then stop talking.”

 

The night went better than Sherlock had expected, for a first meeting with no prior discussion. Sherlock rode him until James grew impatient, at which point James turned them over and took control. It was fast and rough, until it wasn’t; until they were finished, and James kissed him reverently, tongue sliding across Sherlock’s skin, lips gentle and tender. It was quite unexpected. Sherlock enjoyed it, so he lay back and let James do as he pleased.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up, and James was lying on his stomach, hugging a pillow. The tattoo on his back, a skull with sharp teeth, watched Sherlock from the curves and slopes of James’ skin. He was breathing deeply, soundly; quite a healthy specimen of a man. Sherlock was pleased with the situation. He couldn’t have envisioned his risk-taking ending any better than this.

He heard Watson moving in the kitchen. He pulled on the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday, ignoring the lingering smells. He wandered out into the kitchen, shirt open. Watson raised her eyebrow dryly. She had once been shocked by his sexual exploits, but that had been many years ago.

“I take it you don’t have plans for this morning?” She asked as she poured a cup of protein powder into a clear drink bottle. It was hot this morning; the beginnings of summer, marked by a heatwave that had the air heavier and the wind dryer.

He opened the fridge and began rummaging in search of breakfast. “Why would you assume that?”

“Your night obviously went well. I assume she’ll be staying?”

“He.”

“Sorry?”

He jabbed a thumb over the shoulder in the direction of the spare bedroom. “There’s a man in there.”

Watson nodded, screwing a lid onto the bottle. “It’d been a while since you’ve chosen a man over a woman.”

“Well, this particular man is exceptional.” He pulled out a slab of sliced turkey and put half of it in his mouth. “Do you have plans for this morning, Watson?”

She shrugged, placing the cup onto the blender base. “Going for a run, then finishing up with a client. Not much else. I think I might be getting sick, so I’m taking it easy.” She turned on the blender. Sherlock closed the fridge and returned to the spare bedroom, chewing on the turkey.

James looked blearily up at him, squinting as the noise of the blender pierced the room. Sherlock closed the door and the noise quieted.

“Is someone else here?”

“I have a…” Sherlock paused. “…roommate. Of sorts. I work with her.” He held out a slice of turkey.

James took the turkey and began eating it as he sat up. Sherlock’s eyes wandered between James’ thighs, out of habit more than anything else. James moaned quietly at the succulence of the meat. “You sleep with her?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh. “I sleep with you, that’s all that’s relevant. Do you need to leave anytime today?”

James put the slice of turkey between his teeth and pulled. The meat separated. His throat worked as he swallowed. He put the last piece of meat in his mouth, swallowed that too. His lips glistened as he grinned.

“Nope.” He sat up slowly, muscles coiling. “Is your roommate going to be hanging around much longer?”

Sherlock took his shirt off, shrugging as he did so. Watson had been about to leave for her run, but he was beyond caring if she heard anything before she left. “It doesn’t much matter.”

James held up a hand. “Hold on. How long have you been planning this?”

Sherlock’s hands paused, fingers at his fly. “I wouldn’t call it planning.”

“I would. You weren’t exactly subtle about it.”

“Neither were you.”

James grinned wider. His teeth showed. Sharp white incisors. “Fair point.”

Sherlock undressed.

The heat of summer intensified every touch, made their skin slick with sweat even before a few minutes had passed. James, owing to his flexibility- in more than one sense of the word- surprised Sherlock by reversing their positions, head craning towards the ceiling, sinking down onto Sherlock. He was a work of art. Sherlock, again, was happy to let James take the lead, in whatever way he wanted to. He had acquaintances that were more about control and rules, and sexual arrangements that depended on previously set guidelines. That wasn’t what he wanted to have with James. This was casual, spontaneous sex, and that was all he was looking for.

He put his hands on James’ thighs, fingernails gently marking the tanned skin there, scraping over black ink. He watched the lines and designs sway as James moved his hips, his penis brown and stark against his tattooed abdomen. Sweat made him shine.

“You’re,” James breathed, “Don’t you want to…?”

Sherlock smiled up at him, heat coiling in his stomach. He was close. “I’m happy. With this.” He reached up, took James in hand, relished the way James’ mouth opened, a surprised moan hitting the air. His tempo stuttered, hips jerking.

“F- fuck, Sherlock-”

“Keep going.”

James did, as much as he was able, until tremors built in him, shivering up his spine, shuddering through his entire body until he was limp, panting against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned his head towards him, lips at his temple, closing his eyes as he found his own release.

They were still for several minutes. The heat, eventually, forced them to move. Sweat, previously slick and hot, was now unpleasant and sticky.

“You need to invest in some air conditioning.” James muttered, wincing as he moved off Sherlock.

“Charming.” Sherlock stroked his knee absently. “Shower?”

“Sounds good.”

 

James left after they showered- he was a tactile man, running his hands up and down Sherlock, inspecting each of his tattoos under the flow of water. Several, he had not seen before, and he asked where each of them came from- most questions were met with lies. Sherlock had no desire to reveal his past to a perfectly good lover, and potentially ruin this arrangement.

Once James was gone, Sherlock checked his phone, and found a missed call from Marcus, only five minutes ago. He dialled back as he dressed.

_“’Ey, Sherlock.”_

“Hello, Marcus. Do you have a case for me?”

_“I did, a few minutes ago. But the case got taken off me, so I can’t give it t’you anymore.”_

Curious. “Why?”

_“D’you know Detective Sanchez?”_

A competent detective, with numerous admirable qualities. Quite an attractive woman, too, though Sherlock would never sleep with her, primarily because she was a lesbian. “I do. The case is now hers, I assume.”

_“Yeah. She’s moving up to the highest rank of a detective, so a high profile case’s supposed to be some kind test, y’know?”_

“High profile?”

 _“Nah, Sherlock,”_ , amusement crept into Marcus’ voice, _“, you don’t get to be involved with this one. This one’s Sanchez’s. A’right?”_

“I assume she’s picking her own team.”

_“Yeah-”_

“Would it be unreasonable to assume she’d pick myself, then? Or Watson?”

_“This one’s strictly by the books. Don’t even think about it.”_

Sherlock was tempted, but the heat outside was propelling him into an uncharacteristically content mood. He considered inviting James back, but he figured the artist probably wanted to rest. “If I must refrain, I must. Do you have no other cases for me?”

_“Cold cases, nothin’ else. Even criminals don’t like heat like this.”_

Sherlock hummed. “How disappointing. Are you working all day, then?”

_“I ain’t entertainin’ you, Sherlock.”_

“You’d rather combat New York’s elderly and infantile having heatstrokes?”

_“I’d rather get paid, yeah.”_

“I’d pay you.”

Marcus laughed. He obviously wasn’t working too hard, given the conversation had gone on this long. _“For what?”_

Sherlock could hardly admit he didn’t have any specific plans in mind. He favoured the excuse of simply enjoying the detective’s company. “I do have a few experiments you could assist in.”

 _“Mad scientist’s assistant for the day, eh?”_ Marcus smile could be heard over the phone. _“I’ll pass.”_

“Shame.”

Another laugh sounded over the phone. Sherlock smiled, for some reason contented by that carefree humour. He and Marcus were cut of the same cloth; they were both sarcastic, at times acerbic, and sometimes even cruel. But Sherlock enjoyed this kinder side of Marcus, and liked what it reflected within himself.

_“Good luck findin’ a substitute, Sherlock.”_

Sherlock thought of James, and decided the comparison swung in Marcus’ favour. “And good luck to you as well, detective.”

 

The heat intensified through the day. Sherlock went out into the backyard briefly, glanced at the yellowing grass and plants of the small garden, and went back inside. He’d never pretended to any kind of botanical skill.

Watson returned, eventually, after her run. She was thoroughly exhausted, but still had to meet with her client, so she showered and left in a hurry. Sherlock, once again, had the brownstone to himself, and very little to do with his time, aside from mull over Watson’s obviously decreasing health. If she wasn’t running a fever already, she would be. He made a note to keep her welfare in mind.

He went to the roof and placed thermometers on the beehives. Deciding that the bees were too hot, he moved them into the brownstone. Into his bedroom, of course. Watson would move them there herself anyway, if she came home and they were in her bedroom. And he didn’t mind the lingering smell of honey. If anything, he found it comforting- though he planned to be using the spare bedroom more and more, if this arrangement with James continued to flourish.

The next few hours were spent experimenting, and at one stage putting out a fire that resulted from this. All of his acquaintances were either busy or struggling to cope with the heat, and none of them had any interest in entertaining, or being entertained by, him. He sulked for a while, and then busied himself rearranging his wall of locks, this time by date of manufacture. After exhausting the appeal that a collection of locks could offer, he then hung upside down for as long as the summer temperature would allow him, intending to measure the effects that doing so would have on his deductive skills. Having overestimated his ability to cope with the heat and the blood rushing to his head, he then spent quite a while lying on the floor as the world swam before his eyes.

He was getting bored.

As he gazed up at the ceiling, head pounding with blood, face warm to the touch, he thought about Marcus.

He was, quite undeniably, interested in Marcus–honestly, how could he not be, given the detective’s fine physique? But he’d never perceived any hint that the feeling was mutual. And he didn’t dare risk turning their connection into something more; not only did they have an ideal professional relationship, they also had a friendship that had spanned years. Marcus mattered to Sherlock. He didn’t want to lose one of the few friends he’d been able to make. His isolationist tendencies generally prevented him from doing so.

He stared at the ceiling. His face was still pounding.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, this OC is inspired by Stephen James, aka one of the most gorgeous tattooed men in existence
> 
> http://www.bangandstrike.com/bangtalk/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Stephen-James-Darren-Black-1.jpg


	2. Chapter 2

Marcus tugged at his collar.

The heat was making his shirt stick to him, the fabric clinging. He treated his suits like uniforms, as if he were really wearing the police blue he’d grown up both respecting and fearing; professionality, to him, was what separated him from others. What separated him from his childhood friends and his brother.

Still. It was so _hot._

He looked, again, at his phone. Hanging out with Sherlock actually sounded appealing. He could loosen his tie, take off his shirt, put on a singlet. Maybe Sherlock would relax too. Maybe Marcus would get to see what was below the propriety and the fluent cynicism. Maybe he’d shed that layer of protective intelligence and Marcus would be able to once again glimpse the man that had fallen so hopelessly in love with Irene Adler.

Glaring at his phone, Marcus sighed. At first, it’d just been curiosity. He didn’t believe that anyone could be in a room with Sherlock and not either hate him, or become fascinated with him. A mind that moved that quickly, a body that had endured such abuse, eyes that saw everything and became quick with anger whenever his friends were threatened. He was an English oddity among their New York hustle, who fit into Marcus’ life like a strangely shaped cog; he was a part of Marcus’ life that had become–somehow–so essential, so inherent to his every day.

Marcus didn’t sleep with men, really. Women were easier, for him–maybe it was his childhood, maybe it was his father who’d beaten him for kissing the boy next door, whatever.

But Sherlock. Sherlock, he wanted to know. Sherlock, he wanted to touch.

Sherlock, he thought of too often.

Marcus picked up his phone, slid it around in his hands, thumb brushing over the screen. Whenever Sherlock got at all close, Marcus got sardonic and snappy. Even when Sherlock had tricked him into winning a bounty for his mother, Marcus hadn’t properly thanked him. He’d been too nervous to say the words; heart in his mouth, warm cheeks, eyebrow raised in faked sarcastic surprise. Thank god he was too black to blush. He’d gotten in the car, stared for too long at the cheque, and then hit his forehead on the steering wheel.

 _Goddamn,_ he’d thought, _I’m pathetic._

Repeating the thought now, Marcus glumly put his phone down on the desk, and rubbed his face. It was so fucking _hot._ He was too tired. Overthinking things.

 

Marcus stared glumly at the brownstone door.

He had a case of lemonade in one hand, a case of beer in the other. Obviously, Sherlock didn’t drink alcohol, so the lemonades were for him–and the beer was for Marcus’ sanity. And for Joan too, if she wanted any.

Marcus didn’t know what he was doing.

He knew Sherlock would probably just take one look at him and deduce that he was lonely, that he was pining for company; he wouldn’t be wrong, and it would be humiliating.

Marcus didn’t have much of a social life. He worked from seven until six every weekday, and on weekends slept in, went to the gym, stocked up his fridge, and occasionally went out for a drink. Once in a while he’d get laid, but not often. It wasn’t as if no one was interested–in fact, he generally found himself turning people down. The fact was, he was actually less and less interested in women with every passing day, but too afraid to go to a gay bar where a guy would actually approach him. And dating apps just seemed sad.

He was relatively happy with his life. He was a cop, he did good work, and earned enough money to support himself and have enough on the side that–when he eventually, _eventually_ took that holiday–he could afford to relax on a beach somewhere.

Whenever he dressed in the morning before work, he’d look at himself in the mirror and wonder when he’d become so boring. He bought men’s fitness magazines, and knew he looked just as good as the guys on the covers. It was a statement of fact more than an ego boost; he worked hard to stay this fit, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed to relax a bit.

Was he looking for something? Some sort of special connection, a spark, a kind of soulmate instinct he’d decided a long time ago didn’t exist? What was it? Why was he content to live like this, and why didn’t this constant loneliness bother him more? Money was scarce when he was a kid and he thought maybe, maybe that’s what it was- maybe he’d been so determined to keep this job as a cop, not end up like his brother, that he’d spent all these years with work and financial security as his first priority.

All these thoughts, and more, would run through his mind. Then he’d dress, go to work, and the whole thing would loop around again.

Marcus took a deep breath, standing before the brownstone door. Today, he would break the cycle. Today, he would finally make a move, and he’d stop being lonely. He almost expected the door to violently fly open before he could knock, almost expecting the universe to throw yet another absurd hurdle in his path and prevent him from doing this. Maybe, truthfully, he wanted some kind of distraction. Some kind of excuse to walk away, turn back.

 _You chicken-shit bastard,_ he thought wearily, _just knock._

Thoughts of returning home to an empty apartment without having at least _tried_ haunted him, and he shifted the case of lemonade underneath one arm, so he could have one hand free to knock. He hesitated, took a breath, and knocked.

And waited.

Eventually, the door opened. Sherlock was standing there.

“Detective,” he said, “what a surprise.”

Marcus tried not to stare. Sherlock was wearing a fitted white singlet, and all his tattoos were suddenly exposed, black ink vibrant against his English skin. Marcus kept forgetting he had tattoos; he seemed to perpetually exist in suits and long-sleeved shirts. Always so proper. Always so formal. Which, quite possibly, was half the reason Marcus blinked dumbly, suddenly struck speechless.

Maybe it was also because he now, more than ever, wished Sherlock would fuck him into a mattress.

“Uh,” he began, “you free? I’ve got the afternoon off.”

Sherlock squinted suspiciously.

Marcus held up the lemonade. “These are for you.”

Sherlock took the case, stared at it, then at Marcus. Then, with his usual sense of theatrical drama, he stepped back and broadly gestured for Marcus to come inside.

“I take it that the air conditioner in your home is broken?”

“Nah,” Marcus grinned at him, as Sherlock closed the door.

Sherlock frowned, genuinely confused. “Then why are you here?”

This was starting off worse than Marcus had imagined. “…We’re friends, right?”

“…Yes.”

“Well,” Marcus held up the case of beer as an example, “this is what friends do. You get me?”

Sherlock’s sceptical peering was starting to become amusing. “You’ve never popped around for drinks before.”

Marcus sighed. “Look, it’s hot, I’ve had a shitty day, and I want to sit around and listen to you talk. That okay?”

“…What would I talk about?”

“…Whatever you want…? Cases, whatever…? You’ve never been at a loss for words before.” Marcus laughed uncomfortably. “Come on, Sherlock. You’ve always got something to talk about.”

Sherlock considered him for a few more torturous seconds, before nodding resolutely.

“Alright. If you are to insist on being here, you can help me tend to my bees.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t been kidding. They did tend to his bees.

Marcus learned a lot about the bees, and about honey, and about flowers, and about pollination. He’d never have imagined he could feel any kind of sympathy for, or interest in, evil stinging buzzards, but hey, it was a day of revelations.

It was uncomfortable, at first, as he’d expected it might be–Sherlock wasn’t someone that just _hung out_ with people.

That was the thing about being attracted to him; Marcus wasn’t sure he could ever actually function in a relationship with him, in that absurd daydream he had occasionally. But, on the hottest goddamn day of the year, his mind was cautiously changed; they talked and, after a while, it was… normal. It was good. Better than good. Sherlock told him things he’d never have learned from anyone else, but he also asked Marcus about his life. Marcus got to relax with a friend, with _him._ He realised, as it approached night, that he was comfortable. They were comfortable together, like this.

It was nothing short of a goddamn miracle.

 

“Well,” Sherlock said as he sat back in his chair, considering the chilled bottle of lemonade in his hand, “I must say, you make small talk bearable, Marcus.”

Marcus grinned, took that as a compliment of riches. They were sitting in the kitchen, as per Sherlock’s insistence that conversing there provided quick access to cold drinks and a vantage point to monitor the front door in case Joan came home and needed any assistance. She was sick, apparently; Marcus was touched, seeing the way Sherlock cared about her.

“So, what’ve you been up to?” Marcus asked. “Aside from catching psychopaths, looking after bees, and observin’ tobacco ash stains, that is.”

Sherlock considered him silently for a moment, and Marcus couldn’t read his expression. He met his eyes, confused, and just as he was about to say, ‘what the hell, man’, Sherlock shrugged and said;

“Not much. I gained a new acquaintance, recently.”

Marcus blinked. “’Acquaintance’, as in…?”

“Lover, yes.”

“Uh.” Marcus had a sip of his beer, nodded. “Well, good for you, I guess.”

Sherlock was still looking at him in a pointed, strange way. “Yes. He’s quite attractive.”

Marcus spluttered. He choked on his mouthful of beer, and started coughing.

“Well. That wasn’t quite the reaction I expected.”

“Jesus,” Marcus coughed, a hand on his throat, “fuck, Sherlock. Warn a guy, would you?”

Sherlock took out his phone, and started texting.

“…What’re you doing?”

“I’m texting him. His name’s James, by the way.”

Marcus swallowed. His throat was itchy. And his heart, for some strange reason, was beating too fast.

_Since when does Sherlock sleep with men? What the hell?_

“He was going to come here in an hour or so, to meet with me,” Sherlock explained, “I don’t see the need for him to come around now.”

“I can leave.” Marcus started to stand. He suddenly needed to be anywhere else except here–there he was, harbouring a secret crush on Sherlock goddamn Holmes, and the whole time he could’ve made a move, if only he hadn’t been so scared. He felt humiliated, for no good reason.

“No.” Sherlock stood, too. “You’re angry.”

Marcus shook his head. “Nah, you’ve just got better things to be doin’. Don’t let me keep you.”

Sherlock caught his arm as he began to turn away, held him still. Marcus glared.

“What’s your deal, Sherlock? Let me go.”

“The thing you tend to forget about me, Marcus, is that I am keenly observant. And the thing you seem to forget about yourself is that you are tend to wear your heart on your sleeve. You have many qualities that I greatly admire, but you are not subtle.” Sherlock paused. “But there is something you don’t know about me.”

Marcus stared. He didn’t know what Sherlock was saying. “And what’s that?”

Sherlock looked at him, for a long time, before he leaned forward, slowly, and kissed Marcus.

Marcus jerked away immediately, eyes wide.

Sherlock watched him with a surprising amount of shyness, of reluctance. Marcus’ lips burned, the feeling of Sherlock’s lips softly pressing against his scored into his mind forever. He was still holding onto Marcus’ arm.

“You want me, correct?” Sherlock moved forward, voice quiet. “How you just acted, when I mentioned my acquaintance, that was jealousy.”

Marcus yanked his arm away. “You’re crazy.”

“I wondered why you would come here. Tonight, for no reason that was apparent to me. You are lonely. I’ve known this for a long while, and told you as much in the past. But I didn’t realise you wanted me until you came here.” Sherlock moved closer, close enough that Marcus wanted to step back. He leaned back, felt the edge of the table digging into the back of his thighs.

“I simply thought that, the night you came here after your girlfriend was exposed to you as an IA agent, you were looking for friendly company. But that wasn’t all you wanted, was it, Marcus? You wanted me.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he lied.

Sherlock smiled, and Marcus nearly goddamn fainted, seeing what could only be described as _lust_ in his face. He looked roguish, excited, mischievous.

“Oh, Marcus,” he said quietly, “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

Maybe it was that he wasn’t drunk enough to deceive himself into believing this was all some kind of wet dream, or maybe it was because Marcus was so fucking lonely, or maybe it was because Sherlock’s expression was sin personified–whatever the reason, Marcus didn’t move away, didn’t run. He reached out, grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck, and yanked him forward. He crushed his lips against Sherlock’s, and almost couldn’t believe it when Sherlock’s mouth opened against his, tongue wet and inviting.

They kissed, impossibly, and Marcus couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But he could feel Sherlock’s hand wandering up his side, cupping his neck–he wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, able to feel every muscular curve though the singlet, and pulled Sherlock against him. Just because he could. Just because he thought he’d never be able to.

“Is this really happening?” he breathed the question against Sherlock’s cheek, as Sherlock kissed his neck, “shit, shit. We- We _work together,_ Sherlock _,”_

Sherlock pulled back at that, face flushed. He was sweating, they both were; the singlet was clinging to him, and his tattoos were all the more vibrant on his moistened skin. He looked taken-apart, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths–he looked so _not himself,_ and Marcus was dizzy.

“You’ve had affairs with colleagues before. We detained one who scorned you, remember?”

Marcus shook his head. Like he needed reminding. “That was… This is _different,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. “How?”

“…I don’t usually sleep with guys. You’re…”

Sherlock waited for Marcus to continue. Marcus looked down, rubbed his face, and seriously considered leaving, running away to his safe apartment and pretending this had never happened.

But he couldn’t. Not while Sherlock was standing so close, with lips that Marcus himself had made wet and pink.

“…You’re special, goddamnit, Sherlock,” Marcus looked up at him, desperate, “And I’m really not prepared to sleep with someone who’s only gonna go sleep with someone else tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded briskly. “A logical assumption to make. You will observe, however, that I texted James, and told him not to come tonight.”

Marcus felt uncomfortable. “So what? That doesn’t mean nothin’ about tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that, goddamnit-”

“I would much rather engage in a relationship with you than with strangers.”

Marcus hadn’t expected that.

He waited for Sherlock to say more, to explain. It was out of confusion, and then sheer stubbornness, that he stayed silent. Eventually, Sherlock rolled his eyes petulantly, sighed loudly.

“I find you attractive, intelligent, and I trust you. I’ve not found anyone else I am more inclined to engage in a relationship with. Provided I can adapt to a life of monogamy, I would like to attempt it with you.”

Marcus blinked. “…You’re talkin’… about… dating.”

Sherlock made a face. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“…I, uh…”

“You’re shocked, yes,” Sherlock nodded. “You need time to think about this. I understand.”

“…Well, yeah, obviously, but…” Marcus felt like this was some strange sitcom, some weird reality where everything he wanted was coming true, but he didn’t know what to do with it. “…Don’t you need time to think about this?”

Sherlock frowned. “Do I not seem fully decided?”

“Well, it’s just…”

“Out with it, Marcus, come on.”

“…The last person you were datin’ was Irene, right? And we both know how that ended up.” Marcus shrugged, “I dunno, it just seems… you might be a bit reluctant to jump into somethin’. I always thought that was why you had all your acquaintences. ‘Cause you were too afraid of commitment.”

Sherlock’s expression sobered. He was still, for a long moment, before he smiled softly.

“And there it is.”

“…There what is…?”

“Evidence.” Sherlock stepped forward, so close, “That this is the right decision.”

Marcus sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, not sure whether to push Sherlock away out of sheer habit, or pull him closer. He knew which he wanted.

“What evidence?” he asked, in lieu of making a decision.

“You know me so well.” Fingers, gentle and soft, touched Marcus’ cheek. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking at him with fondness, with such devotion that Marcus felt heat surge to his cheeks. “You see through my façade, and you know my pain.”

Marcus let out a shocked breath. Sherlock’s words had been whispered, as if it was a secret, and Marcus realised it was; he realised, in that moment, how well he knew Sherlock, how close they had become over all these years.

“You wanna date me,” he breathed, “for real?”

Sherlock smiled, still so mournfully affectionate.

“I do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
